I Am No Delecate Miss Muffit

This just in.

I hate spiders.

I am sure this comes as no surprise because, well, who actually likes spiders?

Good point. Moving on.

This past week I have had two unwelcomed run-ins with my furry, eight legged friends and I didn’t handle either encounter nearly as elegantly as a one Miss Muffit did. In fact, I’d describe my reaction somewhere between ohmygodisthatpoisonousitstryingtokillme and killitkillitkillit.

My first encounter came while alone at my apartment, where no one could hear me scream.

I was walking to the shower, having just finished assembling my new [infant sized, no really] dresser when I pulled open the shower curtain and turn on the water. Here enter spider, we will lovingly refer to as Charlotte, by slowly jumping ferociously launching itself onto the floor from between the shower curtain and the liner. Let me make it clear that this was no innocent jump; Charlotte was obviously trying to kill me. Killitkillitkillit.

Reactively, I scream bloody murder and jump on the closest elevated surface I can find, hello, toilet, and grab some sort of defensive weapon, hello, toilet bowl foaming cleaner. I stood ready with knees bent for a long moment, which reminded me of all the long moments I had atop the high dive at the pool, knowing that I couldn’t go back down off the ladder and that the only way out was to jump.

Looking back, this could have been used as a great reflective moment. Self, you are currently standing on top of a toilet in a bathrobe, holding a bottle of toilet scrub as a lifeline against an insect that is no larger than a nickel. You also have several suppressed childhood memories that surface at the weirdest times…

But instead, I devise a plan of attack, realizing that my usual “scream and cry until someone comes to kill the spider for me” tactic was not going to work.

I had two options. One: lock Charlotte in the bathroom with a warning note on the door explaining the poisonous, ready to attack spider that sat on the other side of the door, or, two: kill it myself.

Reluctantly, I opted for option two, if only to avoid the possibility that the spider would escape and end up somewhere even scarier like my bedroom. Killitkillitkillit.

As Charlotte started to move, I realized that I might loose my chance before she disappeared in the abyss of our apartment, so I attacked and did the only thing a panicked twenty-something should do in an emergency of this nature.

I shook up the Scrubbing Bubbles can, leaned toward the floor, and started spraying as hard as I could directly onto Charlotte, while also yelling diediediediekillitkillitkillit. Charlotte was dead after my Blitzkrieg a la Scrubbing Bubbles, and a few more sprays, just for good measure.

It wasn’t a direct attack by any means, as to get any supplies to cause a quick death would have required me to get off the toilet and risking being bitten.

After the storm passed, I stood there, relieved, but now realizing that there was a mound of toilet cleaner on the bathroom floor that wasn’t going to clean itself up. I then swore to myself that next time I was to exterminate a spider, I would remain calm, slowly get a shoe and kill it in the traditional, humane way. I am woman, hear me roar.

Fast forward to last night, when Encounter B occurred in my bedroom at home. Whilst laying in bed reading, accompanied by my mother, Charlotte Jr. appeared. There was no recollection of the promise I had made to myself just days earlier.

I screamed, yelled, and begged my mother to rid of the spider, which she did effortlessly and flawlessly. I stood vigil atop the closest elevated surface, known as my bed.

Lesson here? I need to marry someone with the ability to kill spiders….